


remembering us

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23791825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Jaskier turned toward him and that was when he knew they had a problem: his eyes were slightly unfocused, like he couldn’t believe what – or who – he was seeing. “Hey,” he said, raising a hand, finger pointing. “I know you.”Geralt almost laughed. What a ridiculous thing to say. “Yes,” he replied dryly.“You’re – you’re the Butcher of Blaviken!” he blurted, eyes even wider. Geralt realized, only then, that there was no recognition in the bard’s gleaming eyes, just curiosity. Like a bard, meeting an infamous witcher for the first time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 673





	remembering us

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

The spell was meant for Geralt, but the sorceress missed by a mile and the burst of light knocked Jaskier off his feet. Jaskier fell to the ground, lifeless, and Geralt’s rage was all-consuming, clawing up the back of his throat.

He turned, clutching his sword, and charged her.

She seemed just as shocked by him at the turn of events, and he used that moment to stab his sword through her chest. She gasped, clutching at the blade. He twisted it slowly.

“What did you do?” he growled. “ _Tell_ me.”

He didn’t bother with any false promises, like _tell me and I’ll let you live,_ because there was no point.

The sorceress smiled nastily, hands falling limply at her sides. “Oh, you’ll know,” she assured him, eyelashes fluttering once before her eyes closed, not to open again.

Cursing, he yanked his sword out of her and stepped over her fallen body, rushing to the bard. He was still breathing, at least, albeit shallowly. The same couldn’t be said for the sorceress. Geralt reached out, touching his shoulder.

He startled awake at the touch. “Who – who – ” he stammered as he sat up with Geralt’s help, a hand on his back, steadying him.

Geralt looked him over. He looked okay, if a little shaken, reasonably so. His eyes were wide and dark, his mouth slightly open.

“You’re okay,” he said gruffly. He didn’t add _I think_ because why freak him out until – and if – a problem presented itself? So far he looked, and sounded okay.

Jaskier turned toward him and that was when he knew they had a problem: his eyes were slightly unfocused, like he couldn’t believe what – or _who_ – he was seeing. “Hey,” he said, raising a hand, finger pointing. “I know you.”

Geralt almost laughed. What a ridiculous thing to say. “Yes,” he replied dryly.

“You’re – you’re the Butcher of Blaviken!” he blurted, eyes even wider. Geralt realized, only then, that there was no recognition in the bard’s gleaming eyes, just curiosity. Like a bard, meeting an infamous witcher for the first time.

His stomach churned at the realization. “Yes,” he said finally. “Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier blinked, looking confused but pleasantly so. He had a way of doing that. “Um. Do you happen to know why I’m on the ground?” His eyes flickered to the woman’s body. “And why is that, um, a dead woman a few _worrying_ feet from us?”

He opened his mouth, the truth on his tongue, so readily available, but then he paused, mouth snapping shut. Jaskier tilted his head, staring at him. He should just tell him the truth: that he had been attacked by a mage and she had wiped his memories, somehow. Of _him_ , at least. He still wasn’t sure much of the details.

Assure him that they would find a way to fix it, like they always do.

But then every memory, every _bad_ thing he had _said_ or _done_ to him, flashed through his mind. Most notably was the mountain, the hurt in Jaskier’s eyes as he turned and walked away, shoulders trembling. Geralt had looked for him, not long after descending the mountain himself, but still it wasn’t enough. Even a couple years later he still regretted that moment. Not to mention, every bad thing he had done before then or since.

Geralt could have a fresh start, be a better friend, a friend _deserving_ of him.

He wondered if Jaskier would stick around a second time. Probably not. Maybe he would finally see the error in his ways. They could part ways, like they were always meant to do, but on better – _good_ – terms. Geralt’s eyes focused again.

Jaskier was still watching him, now with a hint of concern. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” he answered quickly. “You were attacked by that mage,” he explained, talking around the lump in his throat. “I just happened to be here.”

Jaskier nodded slowly. “Oh.” He brightened after a moment, smiling. “Good thing you were here, then.”

Geralt’s stomach lurched again. Even now, he was looking at him so brightly, barely knowing him. He shook it off and stood up, offering a hand. Jaskier took it, and he pulled him up with ease. His clothes were destroyed, dirty and ripping in places.

He remembered, starkly, the lute still in their room at the inn. How could he explain _that_ away?

“I have a room at the local inn,” he said finally. “I can lend you some clothes.”

Jaskier looked at him with a hint of surprise but he was still smiling, a slight curl of his mouth. “Well,” he said, gesturing. “Lead the way.”

When they arrived, he told Jaskier to stay outside and wait for him. Jaskier gave him an odd look, rightfully so, but stayed put. He paid the innkeeper for a second room and grabbed Jaskier’s things, his bag and his lute, stuffing them in the second room, across the hall from his own.

“Luckily,” he said upon returning, “seems like you had your own room here.”

Jaskier blinked once. “I did?” he asked, squinting. “How do you know that?”

“I asked the innkeeper,” he said, fast. “Come on. You can tell me if we’re mistaken.”

He held his breath as they walked to the room. Jaskier opened the door and stared at his lute, leaning against the wall. He reached out, skimming the wood with his fingertips. “Huh.”

“You can settle in, then,” Geralt said, feeling nervous in a way he hadn’t in a long time. He took a step back, and Jaskier spun on his heels. A mix of complicated emotions flashed across his face before he sighed, shoulders slumping.

“I’ll see you again, right?” he asked, fidgeting with the hem of his torn shirt. A patch of milky white skin was visible, littered with dark hair. Geralt looked away.

He shifted on his feet, debating what to say. He could leave as soon as the door was closed, give Jaskier the chance at a _normal_ life. He could travel the Continent as a bard, like he was meant to do, maybe meet a lovely maiden and settle down. But he always had been a selfish bastard, even if Jaskier couldn’t always see it.

“Dinner,” he said gruffly. “I’ll be at the tavern.”

*

Surprisingly Jaskier was already there, waiting, when he entered the tavern. He was in a dark corner of the tavern, looking to be deep in thought, chin resting in the palm of his hand. He looked beautiful in the shadows, a bright light against the darkness.

Geralt’s stomach churned again, the familiar discomfort of guilt. He walked over, ignoring it. He was doing the right thing. He was saving Jaskier _a lot_ of hurt, saving him from his many mistakes, all of which he wish he could take back.

Well, now he could. In a way.

He slid into the chair across from Jaskier, mimicking the first time they had met. He waited, searched for any sign of recognition in his bright blue eyes but there was nothing.

Jaskier smiled slightly, eyes flickering to him. “I already ordered for you. Hope you don’t mind.”

Geralt nodded, clearing his throat. “Not at all.”

The food arrived a few minutes later, two plates full of steaming meat and potatoes. Geralt’s stomach grumbled hungrily as he stabbed a piece of the meat. Jaskier poked at his food, lips twisted in a frown. “I feel like I’m forgetting something.”

Geralt froze. “Mm?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed, looking up. “It’s probably nothing.” Shrugging, he finally took a bite.

*

After eating, they returned to the inn together, walking side by side under the night sky. Geralt found himself watching Jaskier the whole walk. He looked different, somehow, less weighed down by years and years of stress and worry.

Younger, even. Brighter.

Geralt barely even realized he was saying something until he looked at him expectantly, eyes sparkling with amusement. “What?” he blurted, clearing his throat.

Jaskier smiled. “I was asking if I could accompany you in the morning,” he said, biting his bottom lip. Geralt’s eyes flickered to his mouth. “You said you couldn’t afford to stay another night, right?”

He _had_ said that, during dinner. He _hadn’t_ expected Jaskier to want to come with him.

“No,” he said, turning away and beginning to walk again. “It’s dangerous.”

Jaskier sighed dramatically – _some_ things would never change – and rushed alongside him. “But I can be — your barker!” he exclaimed after a long pause, eyes brightening. “Your reputation is a bit rough, my friend.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched at the unearned endearment. “I don’t need your help,” he said gruffly as they approached the inn. He stopped near the entrance and turned around. “You will only get in my way, and hurt if not _worse_.”

Jaskier’s expression was like a knife in his chest. He was supposed to be fixing things, not hurting him. _Again_.

“You’ll be safer,” he continued, gentler, “if you don’t follow me, okay?”

The words, gentle and true, were the ones he should’ve uttered the first time around. He was doing the right thing, even if each word was twisting the knife in his chest.

Jaskier looked away, lips pursed. He didn’t say anything. Nodding, Geralt turned and entered the inn. He held the door for Jaskier, who finally followed after a few long seconds. They parted ways in the hallway without a word. Geralt entered his room; it felt bigger with just one person, and far too quiet. He walked to the bed and sat down.

*

In the morning, he gathered his things and left the inn. He did not expect to see Jaskier waiting for him.

“What are you doing?” he asked with a frown.

Jaskier adjusted his bags, hanging off his back, jutting his chin in the air. There was a challenge in his eyes, gleaming. “I appreciate your concern,” he said, “but I can make my own decisions and I want to come with you.”

Geralt should’ve seen this coming, honestly. Jaskier could be even more stubborn than Yennefer.

“If you’re doing this because you think you need to _repay_ me somehow, don’t.” Because, as far as he knew, he _had_ saved his life. And now he was probably thinking he could help him or, well, his reputation at the very least. But there was no point. Jaskier from _before_ had already done that. He never did thank him for the way his ballads, true or not, had helped him.

Jaskier stepped forward, closer. “That’s not… the _only_ reason,” he replied, shrugging. “I just… _want_ to.” He looked down, kicking at the dirt. “I – I can’t really explain it.”

Geralt probably could – magic wasn’t perfect, some of his memories, or the feelings associated with them were probably bleeding through – but he wouldn’t.

“You shouldn’t,” he argued still, though far less convincing. “I won’t be able to keep you safe.”

Jaskier’s eyes twinkled like stars in the night sky. “Why would I expect that out of you?” he asked like he had never even considered that. “We’re practically strangers.” Geralt nearly winced at the words. “I just want an adventure, and you’re basically a _walking_ adventure. Even you have to admit that.”

Geralt looked away. “Fine,” he said gruffly. “Okay.”

He could at least do it right this time around.

*

He started with little changes. Like letting Jaskier ride on the back of Roach out of town. His arms wrapped around his waist were a little distracting, but worth it. Jaskier laughed, tickling the back of his neck, as they galloped down the dirt path through the woods, wind blowing through their hair.

That first night, in the forest, he adjusted their bedrolls, close to each other.

Jaskier watched him, an odd quirk to his lips. “Um. What are you doing?”

He almost said, “ _What do you mean?_ ”, and “ _I know you get cold_ ”, before catching himself. This was something they had started doing months ago, because it was as simple as that: Jaskier was always cold at night, and body heat was the best solution.

If Geralt enjoyed it a little _too_ much, whatever. He never acted on it.

“I, uh – ” He looked down at the bedrolls. “I just thought it’d be better. Since it’s so cold.”

He looked up, not knowing what to expect. Jaskier was still watching him. “Good idea,” he said finally, smiling crookedly. “I _do_ get cold at night.”

*

A couple months later, they sat around the fire together. The stars were shining in the sky, casting shadows on their faces. They were eating, mostly quiet.

Jaskier picked a piece of meat off his stick, staring at it. “You’re not… what I was expecting,” he said slowly. “Based on the rumors and stuff, from before we met.” He peeked over at him, smiling slightly. “You’re a lot… _nicer_.”

Geralt smartly did not mention that he hadn’t been that way toward him, not in the beginning.

He grunted, chewing quickly and swallowing. “Yeah?” he asked almost nervously.

These past two months had been… _nice_. Geralt was avoiding all the same mistakes he had made, before. It was easier, now, to be open and honest. He still felt a bit of guilt, especially at night, once they had both curled up for sleep and his thoughts were free to run amok. But then, in the morning, he would open his eyes to Jaskier watching him, a tired smile on his face, and he would decide it was all worth it.

Jaskier placed his stick back over the fire, turning on the rock. “ _Yeah_ ,” he confirmed, eyes bright.

Then, within a split-second, Jaskier was straddling him and they were kissing and all Geralt could see, taste, hear was _Jaskier_. His eyes were closed, eyelashes fluttering. He tasted savory, from the meat they’d just been eating. He made the most beautiful little noises, grunts of pleasure as he deepened the kiss.

He couldn’t even say who had kissed who first. He decided he didn’t care. He kissed back, sloppy and wet. His skin burned in the best way.

“Is – um, is this okay?” Jaskier stammered between kisses.

Geralt groaned like it’d been punched out of him. “ _Yes_ ,” he answered without missing a beat. Maybe he would regret this later, like he regretted most things, but right now it was all he wanted and more.

Jaskier smiled slightly, brushing their noses together before kissing him again.

It was all a bit of a blur after that, but he wasn’t complaining. Clothes were thrown, and the hot press of skin-on-skin was enough to have both of them seeing stars. It’d been so long. _Too_ long. On their bedrolls, naked, they rubbed off on each other, like horny teenagers.

Finished, they stared up at the stars together while catching their breath.

“That was – unexpected,” he said slowly, honestly.

Jaskier turned, his head on his shoulder. He looked nervous, almost hurt. Like he hadn’t even asked the question yet and knew the answer. Geralt rubbed his arm, a silent comfort. “You said it was okay,” he said after a moment, looking guilty.

“I did,” he agreed, “and I… I didn’t say it was _bad_.” Geralt smiled, just barely, still rubbing his arm.

Jaskier nodded, looking away again. He looked _beautiful_ , even sweaty and red-faced. Geralt wanted to stay here with him, comfortable and safe, for all eternity. He knew that wasn’t an option, of course, but it was still a nice dream.

“Do you want to do it again?” he asked finally.

Geralt squeezed his arm. He had always dreamed of having this, or something like it, with Jaskier. He had always assumed that was impossible, but now here it was — being offered to him. The right thing to do would be to turn him down, _gently_ , and continue being his friend, like was intended from the start. But how could he say no, after he had tasted his lips? Felt the warmth of skin of his body under his hands?

He closed his eyes. “I do,” he said around the lump in his throat.

Jaskier turned again, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Neither of them said anything else after that. They didn’t have to. The night continued on, and they both fell asleep in each other’s arms.

*

Geralt was the happiest he’d been in a while. After that, for months, it was just them. They traveled together, slept together, laughed together. He felt the lightest he had in years, _decades_. Jaskier always looked at him in the morning with the sweetest, truest smile he had ever seen on his face as they packed up, preparing for another day on the road. He looked like he was also the happiest he’d been in a while.

It was a stab to the heart, knowing he had tricked him, had lied to him.

“Geralt,” he said one particular morning, stepping over the remnants of the fire. “Are you okay?”

He pulled him closer, arms wrapping around his waist. Jaskier smiled up at him, eyes alight with joy. He swallowed around the guilt, like needles in his throat.

“Mmm,” he replied, brushing his hands up and under Jaskier’s shirt, over smooth skin. “Just tired.”

It was the truth, in a way. He _was_ tired — tired of _lying_.

But then Jaskier snaked his arms around his neck, humming softly. “We could stay a little longer,” he said, almost purring. He played with his hair, twirling strands around his fingers. “Get a bit more rest. I mean, what’s the rush?”

Geralt smiled, just the barest hint of teeth. “I fear if we stay, we won’t be getting much if any rest.”

Jaskier grinned coyly, tugging lightly on his hair. “You are a smart man,” he said with a wink, and Geralt couldn’t help feeling better. He had everything he wanted, and Jaskier was happy. Why ruin that with the truth, _now?_

_*_

There was just one problem. _Yennefer_. He should’ve known it was only a matter of time before they crossed paths again. They were in a city, looking for an inn for the night when they spotted each other. She was in the market, a basket on her arm.

“Well, well,” she said, approaching them.

Geralt stiffened. Jaskier must’ve noticed, squeezing his hand with a look of concern.

Her eyes flickered to their hands, mouth curling in amusement. “I have to say, I did not see this coming.”

“Excuse me, but do we know you?” Jaskier asked sharply, frowning.

Yennefer seemed genuinely taken back for a split-second before she smirked, eyes alight with mischief. Geralt quickly intervened before she could say anything, shoving Roach’s reins in Jaskier’s hands. “Take her,” he said. “Find a place for the night.”

Jaskier rightfully looked confused, “But—”

“I’ll be there soon,” he assured him. “Just trust me, okay?”

Jaskier nodded, because he trusted him fully. He had no reason to doubt him, not like before. He watched, an uncomfortable weight in the pit of his stomach, as he walked away before turning around. “Yen,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

She raised her eyebrows, folding her arms over her chest. The basket was full of stuff, ingredients for potions and spells. “What the fuck happened, Geralt?” she asked. “Did he lose his memory or something?”

Geralt looked away. Her arms dropped, basket swinging.

“Fuck, Geralt,” she breathed. “Seriously?”

Geralt shifted on his feet. “It was a mage. She hit him with a spell and, uh, wiped his memory.”

“Okay,” Yennefer said slowly. “Okay, well.” She stepped forward, flicking her hair off her shoulders. “I’m staying in a small cottage on the outskirts of town. If you want to—”

“No,” he said, too fast, looking up.

She stared at him, unblinking. “What do you mean _”no“_? Shouldn’t you discuss this with him before making a decision?”

She was right. He hated when she was right, but he had come too far to—“You don’t understand,” he said, glancing in the direction he had left. His heart squeezed, an uncomfortable tightness. “You can’t do that.”

“Geralt,” she said, dripping with judgment. “You’re not _actually_ taking advantage of his memory loss.” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “ _Right?_ ”

He wanted to deny it. “We’re both happy,” he said finally, lamely.

Yennefer stepped even closer. He could smell her, lilac and gooseberries. “You are _manipulating_ him, Geralt,” she said sharply. “Just like you did me. Except he might actually be able to find it in himself to forgive you, _if_ you do the right thing. I am offering to do that— _right_ now. Bring him to my place and I’ll try to recover his memories.”

He couldn’t look at her. Didn’t have the strength. “Yen,” he said for lack of anything else.

She breathed out, hard, through her nose. “Do _not_ come running to me when the truth is spilled, as it _always_ is.” Turning sharply, her hair whipped him in the face. He watched, silent and struck with guilt, as she walked away.

When he trudged to the closest inn, Jaskier was waiting for him outside. “Are you okay?” he asked once he was close enough, worry lines between his eyebrows. “I, um—I put Roach in the back. Rented us a room.”

Geralt silently stepped forward, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Jaskier startled for a split-second before he responded, hugging him back, gently rubbing his back, even through the thickness of his armor. He nosed at his hair.

He smelled of oak and honey. He could drown in that smell and die happy.

“I’m sorry,” he said, barely loud enough to be heard.

Jaskier’s hand stilled on his back. “Hey,” he said, pulling back. “Hey, Geralt, it’s okay.”

“I’m a selfish man,” he said. “You deserve better.”

Jaskier blinked at him, understandably confused but so sweet, _always_ so sweet. “What are you talking about?” he asked softly, reaching up and cupping his face between his hands. His thumbs stroked his cheeks. “You are a _good_ man, Geralt. That’s why I—well, I’m with you,” he said, blushing lightly under the darkening sky.

Geralt tugged him closer again, pressed against his chest. He kissed the top of his head. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered, the truest thing he could say in that moment.

*

They left without seeing Yennefer again. Geralt ignored the sharp guilt, riding with Jaskier out of the town. It was nearly a year, eleven and a half months, when they saw her again. Not Yennefer, but—“ _No_ ,” he said, jumping back.

They were both deep in the woods, the sky still dark, when she appeared out of the trees. Geralt was actively fighting a beast. Not by choice, actually, but necessity. The damned thing had attacked them while they were preparing for bed, their bedrolls messily thrown on the ground.

Jaskier _had_ been a few feet away, hiding, but now he stumbled out from behind some trees. “Geralt,” he said worriedly, eyes widening. “That’s—”

He nodded curtly. He remembered her face—and the sight of her fallen body—clearly. The beast swatted at him again and he scrambled back, cursing under his breath. This was the _worst_ possible moment she could’ve revealed herself again.

He thought she was _dead_.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “That looks like a mighty foe.”

Geralt snarled, glaring at her. But he couldn’t look for long; the beast swatted at him again. “Get out of here,” he shouted over the roaring of the beast, not at her but Jaskier. He startled, stepping back. “ _Go!_ I’ll find you.”

But it was too late: the sorceress in her battered clothes appeared next to him in a flash.

Geralt cursed again, even louder. He swung at the beast, but missed in his fury. She placed a delicate hand on Jaskier’s cheek.

“You’re so in love with him,” she said. Geralt could only listen helplessly, hands shaking as he clashed with the beast, again and again. “If only you knew the truth.”

Jaskier blinked at her, stiff and trembling. “Wh—what are you talking about?”

She smiled nastily and then there was the rushing of water, all around them. Geralt’s stomach lurched. No, no, _no_. He looked over just in time to watch as Jaskier fell to the ground, heavy and limp.

Growling, he slashed the beast and rushed at her. He had been too kind last time, he knew that now. She turned, too slow. He forced the blade of his sword through her neck. He felt nothing, not even the satisfaction he was hoping for, as he watched her fall, spasming once before stilling.

Geralt stepped over her and crouched over Jaskier’s fallen body. He was breathing.

“Jaskier,” he said, “Jaskier, open your eyes.” He gently patted his cheek. “ _Jaskier_ , come on.”

He opened his eyes with a gasp. The relief was unlike anything he’d ever felt before as he tugged him up, wrapping his arms tightly around his still-trembling shoulders. Geralt buried his face in his hair, matted with sweat and dirt.

“You’re okay,” he said, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re okay.”

Jaskier pressed a hand to his back. “Geralt,” he said firmly. “ _Geralt_.”

He didn’t want to pull back, now or ever, but he knew that wasn’t an option. Pulling back, he gripped his shoulders. That’s when he knew what had happened: it was visible in the darkness of Jaskier’s eyes, usually so bright. His stomach churned and he suddenly felt like he was going to be sick, and it had nothing to do with the blood splattered across his chest and face.

“I’m sorry,” he said instantly, squeezing his shoulders. “Jaskier, I—”

He grabbed his hands, gently pulling them off his shoulders. “Geralt, you _lied_ to me. _Tricked_ me.”

The worst part? He didn’t look angry, just _hurt_. Hurt like he had looked on the mountain. Geralt had wanted to fix things—fix _them_ —and he had managed to just ruin them. _Again_. That seemed to be all he was capable of.

He would’ve preferred anger, rage. He would’ve preferred if Jaskier spit in his face, but he didn’t do any of that. He looked down, shoulders slumping.

“Jaskier,” he started again, “I didn’t—”

He shook his head. “Just go, Geralt.”

Geralt couldn’t remember the last time Jaskier had said those words to him, if ever. He didn’t budge, just stayed there, crouching. Jaskier reached up and buried his face, the face he had kissed so many times, in his hands.

“Go,” he repeated. “Please, Gods, just _go_.”

He didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t where to go. He stood slowly. “Jaskier, I’ll—I won’t be far.”

Jaskier didn’t respond. Geralt collected his sword and turned, walking away. He really didn’t go very far, mostly because he knew the woods were dangerous and wanted to keep an eye—and ear—on Jaskier. He found a spot and slumped against a tree, sliding down.

He had not only made a decision for him that wasn’t his to make, and lied, he had tricked him into a relationship he probably never would’ve wanted on his own terms. _Before_. Geralt had warned him— _“You deserve better”_ —and he hadn’t listened, and now they were both paying the price.

*

Geralt barely realized he had dozed off— _idiot_ —until there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking lightly. He opened his eyes. Jaskier was on his knees in front of him, mouth twisted in something like a frown. “Why did you do it?”

He wished he could run and never look back, avoid all of this. He couldn’t.

“I thought we could start over,” he said, though the words fell flat. “I thought… I could be a better friend to you, this time around. I never intended for _this_ —” he gestured between them, eyes downcast “—to happen.”

Jaskier shifted, sitting properly. He stared up at the sky. “But you didn’t stop it.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I didn’t.”

Jaskier sighed heavily, tilting his head down. He picked up a random twig, fidgeting with it. “Geralt, you know that I don’t regret any of it, right?” Geralt looked up, blinked at him. “I mean, even the worst of it—of _us_ —I don’t regret, because that’s what made us who we are—made us _closer_ —in the end.” He smiled almost sadly. “I would go through all of it again, good and bad, to continue being your friend.”

His stomach lurched uncomfortably. _Friend_. “But you shouldn’t have to,” he argued weakly. Jaskier deserved better, always had. He was simply too blind to see that, in the beginning. He would never be so blinded again.

“Maybe,” he said, “but you don’t get to make decisions for me.” Geralt visibly winced. “I do.”

They were silent after that, for far too long. Geralt started to wonder what would happen after this. If Jaskier wanted to go, he couldn’t stop him. He didn’t have the right, not anymore. Finally Jaskier reached out, taking one of his hands.

Geralt startled for a split-second, not expecting it, before relaxing.

“I always dreamed of… _us_ ,” he said slowly, staring at their hands. “Not as friends, but more. My feelings for you were true, if a little misguided. I never thought it was an option, of course.” Jaskier smiled ruefully. “I mean, you never—Doesn’t matter. But you didn’t stop it.” He looked up, a million different emotions flashing across his face. “Why?”

Geralt couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Had they _both_ been so blind? “You— _what?_ ”

Jaskier looked down, ears reddening. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“No, no,” he said, fast, squeezing his hand. There was a rushing in his ears, a pressure in his chest. “I didn’t stop it because I _wanted_ it,” he said, speaking around the lump in his throat. “Just as much as you did, maybe more. I have for—for a while, but I didn’t _deserve_ you, Jaskier. I still don’t—”

Jaskier looked up sharply. “Stop saying that,” he interrupted, eyes hard and unforgiving. “I make that decision,” he said, leaning forward, “for _myself_. And do not think you will get off so easy. I am fucking _furious_ at you, Geralt. You ever do something like that again, I will leave and never look back. Because if we are going to be together, there has to be _trust_ , do you understand?”

Together. _Together_.

Geralt stared at him dumbly. “I don’t think I do, actually,” he muttered, because surely he was misunderstanding.

Jaskier squeezed his hand. “I want to try again. The right way.” He was at a loss for words. Evidently Jaskier misinterpreted his speechlessness. “I mean, that’s assuming _you_ still—”

“I do,” he interrupted. There was no way he couldn’t. “I do.”

Jaskier smiled, just barely. “Okay,” he said, like it was as simple as that. (It wasn’t, not by far.) He shifted, turning around, and leaned his head on Geralt’s shoulder. Their hands, fingers still interlaced, settled on Geralt’s thigh. They were both silent, crickets chirping in the background.

“Jaskier,” he started, thick with emotion.

He shook his head. “Later,” he said softly. “Right now I just want to stay here. Just like this.”

Geralt knew they still had so much to talk about, and probably many more fights in their future, but—well, there was no rush. He kissed the top of Jaskier’s head and closed his eyes.


End file.
